


The Turning of Dead Leaves

by misura



Category: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest, Developing Relationship, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-09 08:41:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4341761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Bit of rough to keep my hand in, yeah?" Tarr asks, gesturing with his cigarette.</p><p>"It's a job," Peter says. He doesn't add: <i>your job, which we're paying you for</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Turning of Dead Leaves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glitterfics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitterfics/gifts).



_I promised him to do my utmost,_ Smiley explains, mildly, and Peter knows that one, two, any number of years ago, he'd have nodded tightly and walked away - or more likely, wouldn't even have asked the question in the first place. _You were there, I believe._

_Yes. I was._

_And so our utmost is what we will do,_ Smiley says. _See to it, will you?_

Nothing much has changed, after all.

(Except Richard, but Peter tells himself that wouldn't have gone anywhere anyway; a moment's weakness, a passing madness, never mind that it lasted a full sixteen months before he broke it off.)

 

There's nothing civilized or polished about Ricki Tarr. Peter accepts that these, too, are the sort of people that are needed to protect Britain's interests abroad - can't make an omelet without someone willing to break some eggs and get his hands dirty, and all that.

Still.

"Bit of rough to keep my hand in, yeah?" Tarr asks, gesturing with his cigarette.

"It's a job," Peter says. He doesn't add: _your job, which we're paying you for_.

"Sure, why not?" Tarr looks around for an ash tray, and Peter wonders what's on his face that Tarr doesn't want him to see, wonders what sort of emotion Tarr would consider himself too inept to be able to fully hide. "I'll be expecting you to have something for me when I get back though. I mean, fair's fair, Mr Guillam."

 _Nothing's fair in this world,_ Peter thinks. _Nothing. What sort of naive idiot would believe in_ fairness _? In our line of work?_ "Something?"

"Irina," Tarr says. "A recent picture, a location, a date - anything. Proof."

"Of course," Peter says smoothly. "I'll see what I can do."

Tarr gives him a hard look, which is fine, the first sign Peter's seen thus far that Tarr is, in fact, aware of what their relationship is, of who's passing on the orders here and who's getting paid merely to obey.

 

 _Telling the Russians is the same as telling Karla,_ Smiley says. He looks very proper behind his desk, like a man who's finally found the place in life where he belongs.

It's hard to remember, some days, that Peter's helped him get there. 

_Do you genuinely think it's a good idea to tell Karla we have an interest in this woman?_

_Then how can we ascertain her whereabouts?_ Peter asks. _If the Russians don't even know we want her, how can we come to an exchange?_

Smiley smiles and folds his hands. _Now that,_ he says, _is for you to figure out._

 

"It's been two months," Tarr says. His job's gone well, barely a splash, so Peter's inclined to look on him kindly, or at least with a certain amount of indulgence. "Two fucking months!"

"These things take time."

Tarr's face turns red. "D'you know what the Russians can do to you in two months?"

Peter's read Jim's debriefing. He's heard the stories. And, of course, he knows what they themselves can do to Karla's agents, given two months and no indication of the Russians having anyone or anything of value they're interested in trading.

"I'm sorry."

"You made me a promise, and I bloody well expect you to keep it," Tarr says. His hands are balled into fists. Peter doesn't feel particularly threatened; he knows how far people like Tarr can be pushed.

"Fair enough."

Tarr reaches for his drink. "How long then, eh? Until you can give me something solid?"

"We should have something for you after you come back from Yugoslavia," Peter says.

Tarr grimaces and splutters for a bit, but in the end, of course, he takes the job like a good little foot soldier and as Peter walks back to the office, he tries to feel the warm glow of a job well done.

 

 _I promised him -_ Peter starts.

 _Your mistake, wouldn't you say?_ Smiley says, not raising his voice.

 

Yugoslavia is followed by Madrid, which in turn is followed by Cyprus.

There's a trick to managing people and Peter's mastered it in a way people like Ricki Tarr never will. That's one side of the story.

The other side of the story is that the best kind of information can be shared or doled out or withheld as you see fit. Information is power, and in order to effectively use Tarr, Peter needs to know more about Irina and her fate than Tarr does.

 

 _I believe we may comfortably part ways with Ricki soon,_ Smiley says. _We have other people who can do what he does. Next time the two of you meet, you may tell him his services are no longer needed. We'll see to it he's well-compensated, naturally._

 _What about the woman?_ Peter doesn't give a damn about the woman. Irina. Tarr does though, and if the Russians do indeed still have her - well.

Tarr doesn't have much in the way of valuable information, but he's smart enough to have picked up a few crumbs here and there, to cook something up. To know where to go.

 _Dead. For quite some time now._ Smiley sighs. _I can give you the file number, if you wish._

 _Yes._ This, Peter knows, is how the master players play the game. _Please._

 

"Dead," Tarr says. He is very pale. "Dead how? Dead when?"

Peter shrugs. "Does it matter? She's beyond help now - beyond anyone's reach."

Tarr glowers at him. "You lot had to keep dragging your feet, didn't you?"

It stings, knowing that Smiley could have told him from the start. To discover he's been kept out of the loop. Still, that doesn't mean Peter needs to be honest here.

"We did what we could," he says. It doesn't mean he has to outright lie, either.

"Well, that wasn't much fucking use now, was it?"

"You barely knew her," Peter says. "This woman you imagine needed you to rescue her - she was a complete stranger to you. Say we'd managed to get her here, say you'd have met her again, alive and well and only a little worse for wear, what then? Some sort of happy ever after?"

"For her, yes." Tarr scowls. "Look, I know what I am, yeah? But she - she was special. I thought, if I could just get her out, then that'd mean I'd have done one thing with my life that was right. One thing that wasn't about killing someone or screwing someone over."

"How selfless of you." It's hard not to mock.

"I don't expect you to understand," Tarr says. "You're - well, we're not so different in the end, are we? You and I, Mr Guillam, we do what we do, and we go to sleep at night and we don't care."

"She was willing to betray her country," Peter says. "Eager, even. That hardly makes her some sort of saint."

"I don't expect you to understand," Tarr repeats. "You couldn't, anyway."

Peter feels irrationally irked. Annoyed, even. "You fell in love with a fantasy. A lie."

"Have you ever met someone and knew, just knew, that they weren't like anyone else you'd ever met before?" Tarr asks. "I'm not talking about love at first sight - that's horseshit, that is. I'm talking about something true. Something you feel in your guts."

 _Yes. His name was Richard and I drove him out of my life so thoroughly that there are days on which I can almost convince myself it was for the best._ "I know this is hard to accept."

"Oh, I'm fucking accepting it all right," Tarr says. "I'm not a bloody idiot, am I?"

 _That's not what I've seen so far._ Peter keeps quiet. He's said all he's come to say; all that remains is the final goodbye. There will be another one like Tarr soon enough.

"Piss off, will you, Mr Guillam? Can you do that much for me, at least?"

"Yes." Peter rises. "Of course."

 

 _Are you sure he's the right man for the job?_ Smiley sounds politely doubtful. _Honestly, I was under the impression you were somewhat eager to be rid of him._

 _I was._ Peter doesn't elaborate.

Smiley doesn't ask him to. _Very well then. Your call, Peter._

 

"I dream of her," Tarr says. "Sometimes."

Peter wonders why he keeps doing this to himself. True, Tarr's replacement would probably not be any sort of improvement. It takes a certain kind of man to do this job.

"I couldn't care less who you dream about."

Tarr barks a laugh. "That's the first honest thing you ever told me, that is. Fucking hell, I didn't think you had it in you, Mr Guillam. Human after all, eh? Underneath those fancy suits of yours?"

Peter thinks of Hayden. Prideaux. "Clothes don't make the man, Ricki."

"No, but they sure tell you something about his priorities," Tarr says. "So let's hear it then, eh? Whose face do _you_ see when it's a bad night?"

"No one's," Peter says, too quickly.

Tarr spreads his hands. "Hey, no need to get that armor back on, mate. Just being curious."

"Trying to take advantage of a moment's weakness is more like it."

"Maybe so, maybe so." Tarr grins. "Can't blame me, can you? It's a rare chance. I mean, anyone's got my back at the home office, I reckon it's you."

"You're useful. Efficient. You get the job done, usually."

"Always," Tarr says. "I fucking always got the job done. Unless the job wasn't what you thought it was, in which case, it's not exactly my fault things don't work out, is it?"

Peter sighs. "What a lovely world it would be if only things worked that way."

Tarr chuckles. "Is that the sound of disillusionment I'm hearing? Surely not. Not from you, Mr Guillam."

"Peter."

Tarr waggles his eyebrows. "Getting friendly, are we?"

"I could use a friend," Peter says. Not Tarr, he doesn't think, but he's not exactly spoilt for choice, and at least Tarr is familiar by now. "Someone to talk to."

"Can't we all." Tarr raises his glass. "Well, cheers then, Peter."

"Cheers."

 

 _Not getting attached, are you?_ Smiley asks.

_Not so much that it interferes with my ability to function as his handler._

Smiley nods once, curtly, and Peter wonders how much Smiley knows, how much of his private life is truly private, these days.

 

He gets home to find Tarr sitting at the kitchen table, newspaper spread out in front of him, pen in hand. The crossword, then. The scene is at once familiar and not at all.

"Bad day at the office?"

The kitchen stinks of cigarette smoke. "Same as usual," Peter says. "What's for dinner?"

"Damned if I know."


End file.
